Stay a Little Longer (15 page)

“I’m not,” Rachel answered soothingly. It was clear to her that Charlotte had become attached to the man. Even in the midst
of her own confusion, she couldn’t help but admire what the child had done, though she knew that her own mother wouldn’t think
kindly of things being taken from the house without her say-so.

“Do you know who he is?” Charlotte asked.

“I… I’m not sure…”

“He knows who you are,” the girl persisted. “He said your name.”

Rachel could only nod. Even with all of the evidence she was beginning to gather to the contrary, she still had trouble believing
that the man lying on the blankets was Mason Tucker. There had to be another reason, another explanation for the stranger’s
identity. Still, she couldn’t deny that Charlotte was right; he had spoken her name…

But not just mine!

Turning back to Charlotte, she asked, “Did he call you Alice?”

The words practically raced themselves out of Charlotte’s mouth as she explained the things that the man had said since she
had discovered him; about how he had called her Alice the first time they met and about how, even when she tried to explain
that she wasn’t who he thought she was and to tell him her real name, he still persisted in calling her by another name. “I
don’t think he knows who I am. Why doesn’t he believe me when I say I’m Charlotte?”

Looking at her niece’s questioning face, Rachel wondered if she didn’t already know the explanation: there was so much of
Charlotte’s mother in her that, if a man were incredibly sick, a bit delirious, he might manage to confuse them. With her
blonde hair, her sparkling blue eyes, and even the sly purse of her lips, Charlotte looked so much like her mother.

“Why does he call me that?” Charlotte asked. “Did he know my mother?”

Unable to answer the girl’s questions, Rachel turned her attention back to the sleeping man. She couldn’t be sure that he
was really Mason. So many years had passed since she stood beside her sister on the depot platform, watching the men head
off for war. She remembered that she had always found him handsome; with his black hair and broad shoulders, he would have
been a catch for any woman. It wasn’t that she had been jealous of Alice… maybe a bit envious. But this man, in his current
condition, was so very far from being handsome…

Suddenly, the absurdity of Rachel’s thoughts became apparent. It was utterly ridiculous of her to believe that this could
be Mason! The truth was that Mason Tucker was dead and had been for more than eight years! He went off to fight the Germans
and had died in France, just like thousands of other men!

How can this man possibly be Mason?

“He’s sick, Aunt Rachel,” Charlotte said softly.

“I know that.”

“What can we do?” Charlotte kept on as a fresh batch of tears began to slide down her cheeks. “We can’t leave him. If we do,
a wolf will get him.”

Rachel found it hard to argue the point, as she had heard wolves howling in the night. She had also felt a growing cold in
the air over the last several days. Winter in Minnesota came quickly; one day might be nice, a warmth still in the air, but
the next could be the one that signaled the coming of chilling rains and, eventually, crippling snow. In his condition, the
stranger couldn’t hope to last long. As bad as his illness was, it would only grow worse in the days to come. If she were
to turn her back on him, to walk away from his desperate plight, she had no doubt that he would die a miserable, painful death.

“We have to do something,” Charlotte implored.

In her heart, Rachel knew that she didn’t have a choice; she knew that she had to take the man back to the boardinghouse.
Even if she were to come to the shack every day, bringing him food and water, she knew that it wouldn’t be enough. It also
wasn’t possible for her to bring Dr. Clark with her; she was certain that all it would accomplish was to cause even more questions
to be asked, questions that had answers she wasn’t ready to share with anyone.

If this man was really Mason Tucker, if he had somehow managed to survive the war all those long years ago, Rachel needed
to find out on her own. She already knew that she would have to keep him secret from her mother and, for that matter, the
rest of Carlson. Once she had nursed him back to health, she would ask him his name, and if her suspicions proved correct,
she would ask him much, much more.

And he will answer me!

“We have to take him back to the house,” she said simply.

“Oh, goody!” Charlotte clapped her hands.

Before the girl’s excited voice had faded from the cramped inside of the shack, Rachel grabbed hold of her, fixing Charlotte
with a stern stare. “You can’t tell another person about any of this,” she explained. “This has to be our secret, just yours
and mine.”

“But if we don’t tell anyone else, how are we going to get him home?”

Rachel knew that Charlotte was right; she knew that she wasn’t strong enough to take the stranger back to the boardinghouse
on her own. In his weakened condition, there was no way she could hope for him to help.

But then she was struck with a bold idea. There might be one other person that they could trust, someone who might not ask
any questions. This person just might be able to get the man back to the boardinghouse.

If he wasn’t too drunk…

“I know what we need to do,” Rachel said.

“What’s that?”

“Let’s get Uncle Otis.”

Otis stood just inside the shack’s door, his hands on his knees, breathing as heavily as a mule that had just been forced
to plow a hundred acres. Rivulets of sweat poured down his round face, and his skin was flushed a bright red. The front of
his shirt was soaked through and his hands, as they fished a small flask of whiskey from his pocket, were damp.

“Now… this here… is just what… a fella needs,” he panted, unscrewing the lid and bringing the liquor to his lips. Straightening
his stooped back, he drank greedily, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he finished. “That’s more than a bit better!”

Rachel paid her uncle little notice. As soon as she was back inside the shack, she hurried over to where Charlotte still knelt
by the sick man. Touching his forehead with her hand, she frowned; his skin was still incredibly hot even though he seemed
to be shivering in his sleep, both sure signs that his illness was getting worse.

“Did he wake up at all?” Rachel asked her niece.

“Not once,” the girl answered with a shake of her blonde braids. “He moaned a bit one time, but his eyes never opened.”

“Shoot and tarnation, Rachel,” Otis exclaimed as he waddled over to the makeshift bed and looked down. He took another swig
of drink before adding, “You didn’t say nothin’ ’bout me comin’ all the way out here to dig a grave!”

The truth was that Rachel hadn’t told Otis much of anything. She’d discounted the idea of concocting a lie when she had raced
back to the boardinghouse; even though he was a drunk, her uncle had a way of knowing when people weren’t being honest. Instead,
she’d kept things vague, telling him only that she was in a spot of trouble and that he was the only person who could possibly
help her. The small bit of flattery had worked much better than any lie or, for that matter, the truth.

Though Otis had complained about the quick pace Rachel had kept while hurrying back to the shack, he had done his best to
keep up with her. Occasionally he’d asked what the trouble was, or why she needed him, but she’d remained silent and gone
even faster. Now that he knew why she had brought him out into the woods, Rachel could only hope he would do as she intended.

“Who in the hell is that fella?” Otis asked.

“I don’t know,” Charlotte answered simply, just as she had been instructed. Before she left the shack, Rachel had taken pains
to make it clear to the girl that she should tell Otis as little as possible about the man. Charlotte truthfully didn’t know
much, but the last thing they needed was for her to tell her uncle that the man had called her by Alice’s name.

No one can find out until I know the truth…

“He’s just a stranger,” Rachel added. “Charlotte found him here.”

“Then why should we be helpin’ him?”

“Are we supposed to just let him die?” she asked her uncle. “He’s sick, terribly sick, and he needs to be cared for.”

“If he’s as sick as he looks, then we should be gettin’ the doctor. The only thing you know ’bout medicine is birthin’ babies,
and he sure don’t look pregnant to me.” The heavyset man guffawed. “As for me, all I know is what my grandpappy taught me
’bout sick cows, and even if he’s on death’s door, he ain’t gonna take too kindly to me stickin’ my hand up his backside!”

“Dr. Clark is still out of town,” Rachel answered, ignoring her uncle’s attempt at humor, “and it might be too late by the
time he returns. Besides, the nights are getting much colder now, and in this shack, we can’t be certain this man will survive
until morning.”

“So what do you reckon we’re supposed to do?”

“We need to take him back to the boardinghouse.”

“Please, Uncle Otis,” Charlotte added.

Otis seemed to be weighing all the things they had told him, looking from each face to the other, and then back again. He
brought the flask of whiskey back to his lips, but before he could take a drink, he thought better of it and screwed the lid
back on. With a sigh and then a chuckle, he said, “Sure don’t look like he’s gonna be able to pay for a room.”

“When he gets better he can,” Charlotte suggested.

“Do you think you’ll be able to help me get him back?” Rachel inquired.

“Shoot, darlin’, this old fella might not be much to look at,” Otis explained, with an odd sense of pride, patting his enormous
stomach, “but I still got a fair share of fire in this here belly!”

Instead of trying to fashion a makeshift travois out of two long sticks and the blankets Charlotte had taken, a method once
used by local Indians to transport their sick and wounded, they settled upon simply carrying the sick stranger back as best
they could. Otis felt confident that with Rachel’s help he would be able to manage the difficult task, provided that they
were able to stop once in a while so that he could wet his whistle. If they didn’t have too many obstacles, they would be
back at the boardinghouse by dusk.

With a groan, Otis leaned the man forward at the waist and, with one limp arm slung over his shoulder, heaved the stranger
from the floor. Rachel immediately took the other arm and they soon steadied themselves. Charlotte retrieved the blankets,
pillow, and other things she had brought in order to care for the sick man, as well as the worn satchel that seemed to be
the man’s only possession, and they were off.

They had no more than shuffled outside the shack when Jasper began to dance around them, barking playfully; clearly, the sight
of the stranger being carried unconsciously along excited him.

“You hush!” Charlotte scolded him. “We don’t need any of that!”

With Charlotte leading the way, they traveled in a different direction than the one Rachel had taken on either of her earlier
treks to the shack; it was obvious that the girl had spent a great deal of time in the woods and knew her way around. After
a difficult passage through a clump of honeysuckle bushes, they found themselves on a worn, rocky path that skirted around
the western shore of the lake.

Even on the path, the going was harder than Rachel had expected. Since he wasn’t awake and able to help them, the stranger’s
limp body felt as heavy as a load of bricks. Occasionally, she or Otis would stumble under their burden, tripping over a rock
or a gnarled tree root and threatening to fall, but they never did. Charlotte stayed ahead of them, moving any fallen branches
she could manage to lift out of their way or warning them about upcoming areas of standing water or mud.

After her turbulent thoughts back in the shack, it was strange for Rachel to be so close to the sick man. Part of her discomfort
was from his smell; his body odor was that of a man who had spent a great deal of time away from a washbasin and a bar of
soap. But the sound of his moans, a weak mewling escaping through his slack lips, tugged at her heart, something that surprised
even her. Once again, she couldn’t help but wonder if she were mistaken, if this man was Mason Tucker or not.

How can it be possible?

“I wonder what your mother is going to think of such a mess,” Otis said.

“We can’t say a word about this,” she answered quickly.

“Why in the hell not?”

Panic gripped Rachel’s heart at her uncle’s pointed question. This was just what she had worried about from the moment she
had decided to take the stranger back to the boardinghouse; how to keep Otis from telling his sister what was taking place.

“You know how Mother is,” she explained carefully, weighing every word. “She already is nervous about all of the other boarders.
If we were to tell her we had brought a sick vagrant back to the house, she’d be liable to be up half the night with worry
that he had some terrible disease, or that once he got better he’d steal her good silver.”

“He isn’t gonna do either of them things, is he?” Otis asked.

“No, he’s not,” she answered with certainty. “But that won’t stop her from worrying herself into a tizzy.”

“Yer right ’bout that,” he agreed. “And I reckon she won’t never know nothin’ ’bout it unless we say somethin’. After all,
it ain’t like she’s gonna come on out of her room to help us haul him up the steps!”

“You can’t say a word to her about him,” Rachel pressed again.

As they continued walking, Otis looked across the stranger’s still unconscious face at his niece and gave her a wink. “You
ain’t gonna have to be worryin’ ’bout your Uncle Otis flappin’ his gums.” He chuckled. “This here secret’s safe with me, long
as you don’t mind me slippin’ out back of the house once in a while to take a pull or two off of my flask. A fella my age
gets thirsty every now and again!”

Rachel gave him an easy smile. Until she found out the truth, until she figured out why this man had called Charlotte by her
mother’s name, she would be happy to look the other way.